How the Mighty Fall
by pseudanonymous
Summary: A man is found dead at the bottom of the stairs. Trouble is, he was already dead before he fell. Can Greg and Sara find out what really happened, and still make time for a life? And will Grissom ever break out of Ecklie's web of bureaucracy?
1. Something Changed

_**Author's Note:** I'm not going to be a smartarse and write some not-terribly-amusing jibe about how I don't own CSI. But I don't. What follows are merely the ramblings of a person with too much time on their hands. Still, after that moment of rudeness, a review or two might massage my wounded ego and make me a bit nicer._

* * *

There's nothing, pondered Sara, that hurts more than rejection. Or perhaps the acute embarrassment that rejection brings. That was why she had never asked Grissom to dinner a second time - couldn't face that indescribable mental anguish again. 

But maybe with Greg it doesn't count, she reasoned to herself as she shoved her jacket into the locker. He hadn't actually turned her down when she'd asked him out for a drink that night on the Sherlock case; rather he hadn't actually said anything at all. And to be fair, even if he had heard her, it was hardly a shocking request – a 'celebration' between two colleagues on cracking a case – where was the harm in that? A perfectly innocent question. Wasn't it? Then why had she spent a cool six months agonizing over whether or not to ask again?

In all fairness, they had gone out for a drink - several drinks, since then. Just not alone; there was always Nick with them, or Warrick, or more than likely half the lab. And that wasn't what she was after. What she had wanted, that night, wasn't anything sordid, or even really sexual – she had wanted to chat, as friends, not just as colleagues. They just got along in some special, indefinable way. Perhaps Grissom had seen it too, and that was why she kept finding herself paired up with Greg, even before the team had split. There was a spark there; what sort of spark, she wasn't quite sure.

Realizing that she had been staring at the closed door of her locker for a good three minutes, Sara sighed, clipped on her ID and made her way to the break room. She glanced at her watch; as ever, she was half an hour early. She thought about making a start on the paperwork she had left over from the B&E from the previous night. The swing shifters would most likely be out in the field, Greg would roll in five minutes late, no doubt, and Grissom would be holed up in his office, so she would have the break room to herself.

But apparently not tonight. Sliding back the glass door, she heard the tinny noise leakage of a walkman set way too loud. Sat there on the sofa with his back to her was Greg, headphones in, leafing through a copy of the National Enquirer. Sara smiled, and closed the door. Pulling out a headphone, she whispered into his ear, 'I think I passed Satan on the way to work. He had a shiny new snowplow.'

Greg jumped. 'Eh?'

'Joke, Tinnitus Boy. You know that probably counts as noise pollution?'

'What? Oh.' Greg swung his legs over the arm of the sofa and pulled out his remaining headphone. 'New toy. Look! iPod. Shiny. Put all CDs on and still have room to spare.'

Sara raised an eyebrow. 'I'd turn it down a little if you value your eardrums. Anyway, what are you doing here?'

'I work here, Sar.'

'Very funny. I mean why are you here now? I could count the number of times you've been early this year on the fingers of one hand.'

'Oh… I see. Good point. Well, you know the lovely new GCMS the lab bought with the money for the key CSI promotion? It finally arrived, and Ecklie didn't trust any of the new lab techs to oversee installation, so I had to forfeit my sleep-in. I've been hard at work since noon, you know.'

'That doesn't look like the Journal of Forensic Science in your hand.'

'Oh, this?' stuttered Greg, gesturing at his tabloid. 'This is… never mind.' He stuffed it back under the cushion of the sofa.

Sara grinned. 'I always wondered where you hid those.'

'Don't tell Grissom. I've been cultivating this grown-up image with him, and I think it's working.'

'You do, huh?' said Sara as she flipped on the kettle. 'Come on, Greggo. Everyone knows you used to keep your porn hidden in the immunology textbooks.'

'What?' he cried, leaping up. 'Did Nick tell you? The scumbag…'

'No. One night when you were on a break Catherine and Grissom went to look up something on Kaposi's sarcoma, and when they opened the textbook a copy of Penthouse fell out.'

'Oh crap.'

'What I want to know,' said Sara, smirking over her mug of tea, 'is why you had a copy of Teen People in there too.'

'Oh, that…' Greg fidgeted and examined the contents of the fridge. 'That would have been for the pictures of Natalie Portman. Or Kelly Rowland. Depends which issue it was.'

'Nice, Greg. You've got this grown-up thing in the bag, huh?'

'Yeah. Well, sort of. See? I have respectable shirts now. With buttons. And my sneakers are black.'

'And vaguely normal hair,' commented Sara, putting a hand out to touch his bangs, then quickly pulling away as she realized how physically close they were.

'Yup.' He smiled a shy, lopsided smile. 'You like?'

'Yeah. I prefer you with the natural look.'

'You do?' said Greg, perhaps a little too eagerly, he thought on reflection. 'Thanks. Anyway, you're hardly one to talk – we all know you're a curly girl really.'

'That's not the same. Straight hair occurs naturally in the general population. Straight hair with spikes that's radioactive orange does not.'

'Unless you're Chuckie out of Rugrats.'

'What?' asked Sara, peering at him in genuine bemusement.

'Never mind. It's a non-grown-up thing. Actually, come to think of it, his hair isn't straight either…'

Sara watched Greg over the rising steam of her tea as he prattled on about hair, and cartoons, and his missing cookies in the fridge, and realized that it was precisely his childlike preoccupations that made Greg so refreshingly different to anyone else she knew. He was a smart guy, that was unquestionable, but until now Sara had always thought that smart went hand in hand with serious. But then again, thought Sara, sometimes it's nice to be proved wrong.


	2. One Way or Another

'Evening all,' said Grissom, closing the break room door behind him. 'Everyone having fun?'

Greg swirled the dregs in his coffee mug. 'Is it grammatically correct to refer to two people as 'everyone'?'

'Thank you, Mr Sanders, I'll bear that in mind. Although after hearing about your run-in with Hodges and the 'funtain water', I'm not too sure about my confidence in your mastery of the English language either.'

Sara smirked and picked at the crumbs that remained of the Twinkie that Greg had pushed on her. Hydrogenated vegetable fat and sugar had not been usual features of Sara's pre-shift meals until he had come under her wing, but she had to concede that she found a guilty pleasure in sharing Greg's seemingly endless supply of snack foods.

'Whatever the correct sentence formation,' continued the supervisor with a cough, 'I hope you're both feeling focussed tonight. We've got a 419 in Summerlin and I've got a departmental heads meeting I can't get out of.'

'Ecklie piling on that Assistant Directorial pressure?' asked Greg, tongue only half in cheek.

Grissom sighed, then nodded. 'There's a fairly run-of-the-mill convenience store robbery out in Henderson too, but Nick said he'd take it since we're pressed tonight. So,' he continued, 'you have the DB all to yourselves.'

Greg and Sara high-fived one another, earning a somewhat puzzled look from Grissom at Sara's uncharacteristic behavior. The assignments meeting over, the three CSIs rose and made to leave.

'Tell Ecklie the staff demand that Snickers bars be returned to their rightful place in the vending machine, boss,' said Greg in deadpan.

'I'll second that,' responded Sara, smiling at Grissom briefly before following her protégé toward the locker room.

Grissom stood in the doorway for a few moments watching the pair as they walked down the corridor. Their words were indistinct, but above the hum of lab equipment and a muffled shot from ballistics, he could hear their laughter. With a sigh, he rifled through his stack of papers and headed back to his office.

* * *

'We are not having this conversation again, Greg.' 

'Come on…'

'Turn the radio off.'

'I'm educating you in modern popular culture,' Greg whined. 'What's not to like about _A Punchup at a Wedding?_'

'The title?'

Greg laughed in mock disgust. 'You must like something. Do you ever listen to music, at home?'

Sara looked over her hands on the wheel, and thought for a moment. 'I like Blondie.'

'Success!' Greg twisted in his seat, fished around in the glove compartment, and held up two CDs. 'The classic but underrated _Plastic Letters_ or the ubiquitous _Parallel Lines_?'

Sara smiled, flashing the gap in her teeth that he loved so much. 'Oooh, long word, Greg. I'll have to go for _Parallel Lines_.'

'Predictable, but a good choice nonetheless. _Heart of Glass_, I assume?'

'Of course.'

'We have a deal!' Greg slid the disc into the machine, and was soon air-drumming along to the music.

Sara glanced over at him. 'You know, it's not that long a drive to Summerlin.'

'Long enough to squeeze in _One Way or Another_. Maybe a _Sunday Girl_ if we hit traffic.'

'I didn't think that Blondie was your thing. I thought you just listened to… noise.'

'I'm a man of taste and discernment,' he said with a grin, 'and I'm always open for a bit of a compromise.'


	3. Death on the Stairs

When they rolled up at the house, the flash of police lights and the fluttering crime scene tape had attracted their usual crowd of onlookers. They were met at the edge of the driveway by Captain Brass, who gave them the sympathetic look of a fellow night worker.

'The coroner arrived yet?' asked Sara.

'Not yet. David should be on his way, though. Probably hit traffic.'

'This lot'll be waiting a while then,' murmured Greg. Brass nodded in agreement.

'Always stay until the body's gone,' muttered Sara as they moved to enter the house.

'Right,' said Brass, retrieving his notes. 'The vic's name is Jonathan Marshall. Wife, Sandra, found him lying at the bottom of the stairs, called the emergency services, but by the time they arrived…' he gestured toward the body.

'You know it's bad feng shui to have your stairs facing the front door,' quipped Sara as she scoped out the room.

'Now guys,' said Brass, lowering his voice, 'I think we'd better take this somewhere a bit more private.' He ushered Sara and Greg into a small reception room adjoining the hallway, and continued, 'I've got a bad feeling about this one.'

'Uhuh?'

'Yeah. An issue of tense on the part of our grieving widow out there.'

'Tense?' asked Greg.

Brass looked over his notes. 'She said, and I quote, 'He was such a wonderful man. I can't believe this has happened'.'

'What he means is that surviving spouses in cases of genuine accidental death almost always use the present tense when referring to their partners in the immediate aftermath of an incident,' supplied Sara.

Brass nodded. 'Which is why I called out you guys. Shall we take a look?'

By the time the trio emerged, David Philips was crouched down on the hallway floor examining the body. The coroner's assistant looked up and gave them a wave.

'So, how's it looking?' asked Sara as they approached.

'Not all that good for the wife,' David replied. 'See this contusion here?' He turned the victim's head to one side. 'Well, you know they say the first hit's for free, but falling down the stairs isn't a one-hit affair. This kind of wound sustained ante-mortem should have bled out to a much greater degree than we see here.'

'So he might have been dead before he fell?' conjectured Greg.

'Seems to point that way. As for actual cause of death I really can't be certain at this stage; there don't seem to be any particularly incongruous wounds, so you don't have a stabbing or anything, but I can't do much more for you at the moment. I think he's all yours.'

'Thanks a lot, Dave,' said Sara, 'You've been really helpful.'

The coroner blushed and stepped away quickly to fill in his on-scene paperwork.

'He has the hots for you, doesn't he?' whispered Greg mischievously as they opened their kits.

Sara glanced sideways at her colleague. 'He made a pass at me once in the morgue when I first came to Vegas. Since then it's been pretty much okay.' She glanced at David for a moment, then continued with her work. 'It's a shame; he's a really lovely guy...'

'Just not the guy for you, huh?' supplied Greg. 'I bet that's what you say to all of us.'

'Hey, I never…' began Sara, but with a half-hearted wink Greg was gone.


	4. From Despair to Where

A trip to the mortuary was never high on either Greg or Sara's list of things to do, but Dr Robbins' coffee machine made the experience a little better. The two CSIs waited patiently as the coroner passed around the steaming mugs.

'Hmm,' murmured Greg with a smile. 'Almost as good as mine.'

Robbins laughed. 'Almost, eh? You wait until I get my milk frother. Though I may have to wait until the end of the financial year before I slip that request into City Hall.'

Coffees finished, scrubbed and gloved, the three made their way toward Jonathan Marshall's body that lay beneath its white cover on the doctor's slab.

'Well, my preliminary autopsy supports David's suspicions: your victim's head wound was definitely sustained post-mortem.'

Sara bent to examine the contusion for a moment, then spoke. 'Right. So… any indication of cause of death?'

'Not just an indication; tox report came back.' The coroner moved towards his desk and selected a manila file. 'Codeine metabolites were sky high. Drug overdose.'

'Really?'

'Uhuh.'

Greg examined the statistics. 'How was it administered? Pills, or…?'

'That was the odd thing,' continued Robbins. 'I extracted stomach contents, sent them for analysis. Normally in drug overdoses one would expect to find a quantity of undigested pills – potential suicides, if they're serious, don't want to risk messing up, so take more than is necessary for the job, and death occurs before digestion is complete.'

'Like saturation levels,' suggested Greg. 'You put too much sugar in your coffee, after a while it doesn't dissolve.'

'Something like that. Anyway,' said Robbins, 'I found only two codeine tablets, the easy-swallow kind, partially digested. The rest I assume must have been ground up somehow, taken with food. Stomach contents were low viscosity – looked like he had some kind of soup as his last meal – might have made that kind of dose easier to swallow, if you'll excuse the pun.'

'Two tablets…that's the standard adult dose for headache, stomachache,' commented Sara. 'So he must have taken them not long before he died.' She paused. 'Why take two pills when you've just swallowed the rest of the bottle?'

'Unless he didn't know he had,' offered Greg.

Sara nodded in agreement. 'So… you think we're looking at a murder?'

'Or a suicide,' said Robbins.

'What? cried Sara. 'Why? The guy's a successful businessman, retail chain here in Nevada, nice house, doing well for himself. Why would he want to kill himself?'

'Who can tell how the human mind works?' asked Robbins. 'You could try his psychiatrist.'

'Our vic was seeing a shrink?'

'He should have been. Certainly on the kind of dosage he was on.'

'Dosage?' asked Sara, confused. 'What was he taking?'

'Luckily for us, he must have taken his last dose around the same time as he took the two codeine. I found two more pills – one a 40mg propranolol hydrochloride, and one 140mg Efexor capsule.'

'Efexor – that's the trade name for venlafaxine, right?' asked Sara.

'One of the new generation of anti-depressants,' answered Robbins. 'These slow-release capsules tend to be prescribed one, twice daily; 140mg is the largest single dose available. Dosage level depends on a number of factors, not least height and weight. Your vic's 5'9", 150lb; whether he was taking one or two, your vic would have been suffering from fairly serious depression.'

'And the propranolol's a beta-blocker – would have been prescribed for panic attacks, maybe?' suggested Greg.

The coroner nodded. 'I know the circumstances are odd to say the least, but I don't think you can rule out suicide yet. There seems to be some indication he's tried before.' Robbins turned over the victim's left wrist; there were the tell-tale white scars.

'But our vic's on anti-depressants,' argued Greg. 'Why overdose on codeine? Why not the venlafaxine? And why take the anti-depressants anyway if you're intending to kill yourself?'

'Habit, maybe? Not wanting to alert family?' suggested Robbins. 'Who knows. But I can probably help you with the choice of drug. Overdoses on anti-depressants can take a long time to take effect, and particularly with the newer generations of drugs, can require a really massive dose. Codeine, on the other hand – it's readily available, fatal dose isn't too high, and crucially it's quick – you lose consciousness within 10-15 minutes, death can occur within the hour.'

'Second time lucky?' said Sara grimly. 'Still doesn't explain how he ended up at the bottom of the stairs.'


	5. Oily Water

'I'm getting a terrible sense of déjà vu about this,' sighed Greg as they spread the contents of the Marshalls' trashcan over the table of the layout room.

'Come on… it's not that bad,' laughed Sara. 'We're not processing another Liquid Man or anything.'

'Still, you got lucky then anyway, huh?' quipped Greg, before realizing the error of his words. Seeing Sara's smile disappear at the memory of her relationship with Hank, he quickly added 'Man, Sara, I'm sorry. Sometimes I just don't think…'

'Nah, it's okay,' she replied dismissively. 'Let's get on, yeah?'

The pair set to, arranging the refuse over the white surface of the table. 'I've got a deli receipt,' said Greg, holding up a slip of paper. 'Jeez! How is it possible to spend 200 bucks on groceries in one go?'

'You saw their fridge – free-range, organic, imported cheeses… high end consumables.'

'Man, I couldn't live like this. What's life without a daily dose of colors, flavors and additives?'

'I do well enough,' said Sara defensively.

'You want me to get Hodges to analyze the Gatorade you drank earlier?' teased Greg. 'I'm pretty sure that blue's not natural.'

'That was… a one-off.'

'Yeah yeah, Sidle, and the rest.'

'Anyway,' said Sara, changing the subject, 'everything I'm finding seems to back it up – the Marshalls weren't badly off, and they liked to take care of themselves. Oooh… takeout.'

'My kind of takeout?'

'If your kind of takeout is a 75 dollar Thai meal from one of the swankiest places in town, then yes.'

'That would be a no.'

'Well apparently it was theirs. You finding any boxes?'

Greg rifled through the assorted refuse before them. 'Hmm… I've got a box: rice, what looks like…' he sniffed the carton, 'green curry of some kind. Mild stuff. You?'

'Styrofoam carton, plastic lid; red, oily deposit… get it to Hodges, do you think?'

'That'll be soup,' said Greg with conviction. 'You know when you get Chinese takeout, you get sharksfin soup or chicken and corn, or whatever…'

'I'm a vegetarian, Greg.'

'Oh yeah. Then you won't know. Anyway, it comes in cartons like those. Get it to trace anyway, to be sure.'

'Wait a second…' Sara rooted through the pile, and lifted something out. 'This box: same curry that you found? It's nearly full.'

'Odd, especially considering how much this stuff cost.'

Sara nodded in agreement. She surveyed the spread before them. Suddenly she spoke. 'Chips.'

'Huh?' said Greg, looking up from his work. 'You want some?'

'No, look.' In her gloved hand was an empty package. 'Someone else obviously did. Doritos – cheese flavor. Can you imagine either the vic or his wife eating these, given everything else we know about them?'

'We didn't find anything like that in their pantry or anything, either. Another person on our scene, do you think?'

'Maybe.' She examined the bag more closely. 'Chips are greasy; I'm going to get this to Jacqui, see if she can't find us a print.'


	6. Accidents Never Happen

'We're very sorry for your loss.'

Captain Brass sat in his chair in the Police Department, and pushed the box of tissues toward his interviewee. Sandra Marshall took one with a manicured hand and noisily blew her nose. 'Thank you.'

'You understand why we've had to call you here, of course,' began Brass. 'Purely a matter of routine; we just need to make sure we investigate all avenues in our inquiry.'

Sandra sniffed, then nodded.

'Mrs Marshall, did your husband have any enemies that you know of, anyone with a grudge against him?' asked Sara. 'He was a successful businessman – any rivals, disgruntled employees…?'

The woman shook her head. 'No, not that I know of. He wasn't an overly sociable person, but I can't think of anyone who actively disliked Jonathan. As for the business, we didn't really discuss it, but I know he treated his workers well – good benefits, decent hours – you know, one year he even sent every employee a little box of chocolates at Christmas? Just to say thank you.' She paused, then blew her nose once more. 'He was such a wonderful man.'

Sara looked down at her hands at her hands that were fiddling with her pen. Displays of human emotion, whether genuine or feigned, always made her slightly uneasy. Still, she thought, got to press ahead. 'So you can't think of anyone who'd want to harm your husband?'

'No. Why? Jonathan's death was an accident, wasn't it?' Sandra glanced at Brass, then back at Sara. 'You don't… surely you don't think… you think someone pushed him down the stairs? That that's how he died?'

'We think someone pushed him down the stairs, but we don't think that's what killed him,' cut in Brass.

The woman looked at him, aghast. 'What are you saying?'

'Mrs Marshall, the coroner's investigation shows that your husband was probably dead some time before he fell,' supplied Sara.

'Then… then what killed him?'

'A drug overdose,' said Brass. 'Your husband's body was chock-full of codeine.'

'Oh my God…' Sandra stared at the Captain, then quickly reached for another tissue.

Sara looked at the woman with concern. 'Are you okay to continue, Mrs Marshall?' she asked.

Sandra nodded. 'I… I think so.'

'Were you aware that your husband was being treated for depression?'

'Yes. It would be difficult for me not to be; he had to take so many pills, and he had his dark days. But things had been better for him since he started taking the new meds.'

'Did your husband ever express any suicidal tendencies?'

'What? No! He was depressed, yes, but not suicidal.'

Brass leaned forward in his chair. 'Mrs Marshall, we found scars on the insides of your husband's wrists.'

'That was years ago!' cried Sandra. 'Years ago, before Jonathan and I even met. He… he wasn't like that anymore.'

'Okay, okay,' sighed the detective. 'Let's move on. Actually, no – let's go back for a moment. What did you and your husband do that day? I mean everything. You got up, you showered – everything from then on.'

'Well, we had breakfast – granola, skim milk – then Jonathan went into the office for a few hours, till about two, three o' clock. Then he came home, and we rested for an hour or so. When we got up, we both sorted through our mail; you know how it can pile up. By the time we finished it was nearly six, and we decided that instead of cooking, we'd… we'd get takeout.'

'Thai?' asked Sara.

'Yeah,' replied Sandra. 'We got it from _Krung Thep_, this really nice place in town. Anyway, we had dinner, but then Jonathan said he wasn't feeling so good, so I said maybe he'd better lie down and then… Oh my God.'

'What?'

'I… I gave him a couple of codeine tablets and he went up to our room.' The woman turned to Sara. 'It was only a couple of tablets – he took them all the time.'

'If it's any consolation, the tablets you gave your husband weren't the ones that killed him,' Sara said reassuringly.

'Oh thank God,' gasped Sandra.

'Anyway, after your husband went to bed – what happened then?' pressed Brass.

'Well, after we ate, I got a phone call from my sister – she lives out of state, so we don't get to see each other very often – and I took it in the study.'

'How long did the call last?'

'I don't know… half an hour, an hour, I don't really remember. Anyway, I talked to Karen, and then…' Sandra bunched the damp tissue in her hands before continuing, 'I came out and there… there was Jonathan, lying on the floor.'

'Right.' Brass proffered the box of tissues to the woman once more. 'Is there any way there could have been anyone else in the house during this time?'

'Well, we have a maid who comes in every day but she'd gone home by then. She has a key, but… how do I say this? She's not young. And she wouldn't think of doing anything like… like that. Other than her… I really don't know. You've seen our house; it's big, and it's got a lot of doors. Any of them might have been open, I just can't tell you for sure.'

'Okay,' said Brass, rising. 'Thank you for your time, Mrs Marshall. You've been very helpful. I'll have an officer show you the way out of the building.'

'Just one thing,' said Sara. 'It's just a small thing. Can you remember what you and your husband ate for dinner that night? I mean what dishes you both had.'

'That's easy,' replied Sandra. 'We had the same thing every time we went there. Jonathan had tom yam goong - this hot and sour soup - to start, and then we both had green vegetable curry and rice. I try to stick to one course – you know, with the figure to watch and all that.'

Sara smiled and nodded, and Sandra Marshall was escorted from the room.

'Right then,' said Brass, exhaling. 'What are you thinking at the moment?'

'At the moment?' Sara sighed. 'I really don't know. There are too many loose ends to really allow us to make any kind of hypothesis at the moment. Any kind of viable hypothesis, anyway. I've got a couple of pieces of evidence that look interesting, but we'll have to wait for the results. How about you?'

'We've got some leads. The vic didn't seem to have any other living relatives, that I can tell you, but I'm still chasing up on the wife's background. As for the Marshalls' financial status – when we get hold of those figures, I think we'll have some interesting reading.'

'Great. Call me.' Sara started to gather up her notes from the table, when she felt a thrum at her hip. Twisting the pager from her belt, she squinted at the small LCD screen. She had a message from a 'DR WATSON', apparently, reading

MISSING ME? MEET ME IN TRACE. I HAVE SOMETHING YOU MIGHT LIKE.


	7. Technologic

'What's up, Watson?'

'Sara!' cried Greg, waving at her excitedly. 'Or should that be Sherlock?'

Hodges looked up from his microscope and snorted in disgust. 'You know Sara, I thought better of you. I mean, infantile behavior like that is precisely what I'd expect from Sanders here, but you – I thought you were beyond all that.'

Well, Hodges,' said Sara, smiling, 'I think humor has its place in the workplace, provided it doesn't interfere with how well we do our work. Obviously you must be a model of efficiency, so of course you have my results from the Marshall case ready?'

'Um… well,' replied the technician, uncomfortable all of a sudden, 'as I was explaining to Sanders before you arrived, I've been getting a lot of stuff from Grissom the last couple of days, and then Catherine came in earlier with this fiber that she said should take priority over…'

'I get the picture,' interrupted Sara. 'So… when do you think I can have my results? Anytime this shift?'

'Give me an hour. I'll have them ready for you then, I promise.'

'I hope so. Come on, Greg; we don't want to distract Hodges, now do we?'

'Absolutely not.'

* * *

'I'm disappointed, Greg,' teased Sara as they exited Hodges' room. 'You send me a message like that, get me all excited, and then I turn up and you don't have anything for me? That's…' she began, folding her arms, 'that's just not fair.'

'Now I only said meet me in trace. I never said that it was about trace, did I?' replied Greg with a rakish grin.

'Okay then. What have you got for me?'

'Come right this way,' he said, catching her elbow and steering her into the print lab.

* * *

'Greetings, Ms Franco. This time, you see, I have company.'

Jacqui turned to Sara, an exasperated expression on her face. 'You know, I thought sending him out into the field might make him sober up a little bit. How wrong could I be?'

'It's all the caffeine, I think. And the sugar,' suggested Sara jokingly.

'Hey! I've only had three coffees this shift.'

Jacqui raised an eyebrow, her face filled with skepticism.

'Anyway,' said Sara, 'your friend here lured me in with promises of new information, so what have you got for me?'

'Right. That bag of chips you brought in? Print heaven.' Jacqui led the pair toward the item on her desk before continuing, 'See? A couple of decent partials and a big fat full print.'

'Have you compared them with our vic and his wife?' asked Sara.

'She has,' butted in Greg. 'Guess what? No match.'

'Great. So we can place another person at the scene.'

'But wait!' continued Greg excitedly. 'It gets better.'

'I ran your prints through AFIS,' said Jacqui, handing Sara a slim file, 'and it turns out your mystery man has been a bad boy.'

'Wow… Stuart Chapman – 27 years old, five-year sentence for fraud and identity theft served at Cook County Jail, Illinois,' read Sara. 'Hang on a second... according to this, Chapman was only released last month.'

'So, I hear you cry,' cut in Greg, 'what is he doing three weeks later eating a bag of Doritos in the kitchen of a house in Las Vegas?'

Sara looked up at her partner. 'You read my mind.'


	8. Takk

_**Author's Note:** okay, I've been rumbled. I am, in fact, English, and thus speak English English and not American English. Consequently, as a number of people have pointed out, my idioms are sometimes a bit off. If you spot any that are, just give me a shout; I'm changing them as they're pointed out to me. Thanks muchly._

_

* * *

_David Hodges was not a man known for his generosity of spirit; a lot of things pissed him off. Having other people in his lab, for example. Greg Sanders. Running trace analyses on other people's stomach contents. The fact that he now had to endure all three of these things meant that Hodges' face, as he stood before the pair of CSIs, was a mask of merely superficial calm, barely concealing the frustration that threatened to boil over at any moment.

'As I think I've mentioned before, I'm extremely busy at the moment,' he said without looking up, 'so if we could make this quick I'd be grateful.'

Sara cast a sideways glance at Greg. He raised his eyebrows and brought a finger to his lips in such an ostentatious manner that it took Sara a great deal of effort to keep herself from laughing and aggravating the technician still further. Composing herself, she sucked in a deep breath and in as cheerful a voice as she could muster, replied, 'oh, we shouldn't keep you long. We'd just be really grateful if you could give us the results on the Marshall case. It's rather an important lead at the moment…'

'When is it ever not important?' shot Hodges sarcastically, before continuing, 'Anyway, I ran the samples you gave me; no great surprises. Tom yam goong and green vegetable curry.'

'That's what the wife said just now; so far, so good.'

'And just to make sure I maintain my reputation for being thorough,' said the technician with a faintly patronizing smile, 'I compared them with these as well.' Hodges reached over to the counter and produced a tray. On it was a duplicate of the takeout order they had found in the trash, the steam still rising from the surface of the packages.

'Wow! Hodges, I'm impressed,' cried Greg, shaking his head. 'I mean, I liked to go the extra mile when I was working in the lab, but I never went so far as to shell out for control samples out of my own pocket.'

'What?' Hodges looked at the man as if he were speaking in Icelandic. 'I'm not paying for this stuff. I put it on the lab expenses account.'

'Oh.'

'Anyway,' he continued, 'everything checked out there. Where it gets interesting is the sample I received from Dr Robbins. Now stomach contents always look like soup anyway, but this time it really was soup and, apparently, nothing but the soup. Apart from the massive quantity of codeine, that is.'

Sara examined the printout that Hodges handed her, then passed it to Greg. 'So it was administered orally? In the soup?'

'Yup. Nothing out of the ordinary with the curry, but then it wouldn't have made any difference to your vic if there had been, since he didn't eat any.'

'None at all?' asked Greg.

'Nope. Check the report. Just the soup, codeine, and some trace constituents – examine it yourselves. Now if it's alright with you, I have some other matters to attend to.'

'No, no, that's fine,' replied Greg, 'and thanks.' He gestured towards the tray. 'So, er… you going to eat that stuff then?'

'Huh?' snorted Hodges, who had already returned to his work. 'No way – not after knowing what goes in there. Besides, it gives me indigestion.'

'Oh… so you don't mind if I…?'

'Take it. It's stinking out my lab.'

'Cool!' Greg passed the trace report back to Sara and scooped up the tray. 'See you, Hodges,' he called as they turned to leave, but the technician made no reply.

'You know what?' asked Sara as the pair walked the length of corridor from the trace lab. 'I think I've just spotted our little lie.'

'You do, huh?' replied her partner. 'Care to discuss it over a little dinner?'

Sara looked at Greg once more, who pulled a pseudo-suave face and held out an arm in a gentlemanly fashion. Pursing her lips into a smile, she took it and the pair made their way toward the break room.


	9. Dishes

It was coming into the small hours, and Greg and Sara were taking a break. Sara watched with amusement as her young charge bounced around the break room in a sudden burst of domesticity. She looked down at the table in front of her. Somehow Greg had requisitioned a mismatched assortment of implements, and now she found herself eating curry for breakfast off a chipped plate with a plastic fork. Flagging night-workers traipsed through from time to time, sniffing the air enviously as they refilled mugs with over-brewed coffee before returning to their stations. It was a good moment, she thought. For a brief time she was a fully functioning social creature, someone who belonged, not just a lonely single woman who ate lonely meals for one in a lonely bachelor apartment.

'What's it like?' asked Greg, setting down two mugs of coffee before sliding himself into the seat in front of her.

'Mmm,' murmured Sara, her mouth still full, 'mmm… it's really good. Okay, not what I'd usually have for breakfast but, no, it's good.'

Greg cracked open the plastic lid of the Styrofoam carton of soup. 'I'd hope so, given how much it cost.'

'You know,' said Sara, 'I think I'm going to have to check this place out, see what else they do.'

'Be careful, Sidle. You don't want to develop a habit or anything.'

Sara looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

'I'm serious! You start out with a green curry here, a _sankhaya_ pudding there, and before you know it you're sitting in your bank manager's office trying to explain away a five-figure overdraft.'

'Don't worry yourself, Greg; it's not like I've got anything else to spend my money on anyway. And since when did you get all _au-fait_ with Thai food? I thought the extent of your appreciation of Oriental cuisine was microwave ramen.'

Greg clapped a hand to his chest in a feigned gesture of hurt. 'You know, I don't know why it is that everyone thinks I'm uncultured. Who says that just because I'm a young, hip slip of a thing with great taste in music, I can't appreciate a good _sambal oelek_ when I see one? I know my Thai food, yeah.' He paused and glanced at Sara; her expression alone told him she was unconvinced. 'Okay, I looked up their menu on the internet yesterday. Still – that's initiative, right? A desirable quality in any CSI.'

Sara covered her mouth with a hand as she tried to stifle a laugh. Working with Greg was always fun; sure, he could be a cocky bastard at times, but he usually had the good grace to laugh at his own mistakes. That, and he reminded her that life wasn't just about rolling into work every day to figure out how other people ended up dead.

She was drawn out of her reverie by the realization that Greg was waving his hand in front of her face; she'd obviously stopped listening. 'Sorry… miles away for a second. What did you say?'

'Nothing much – just a helpful suggestion on how to get this stuff for free.'

'Oh? What's that?'

'Hot date. First one, of course. That way you don't have to go dutch, with the added advantage that your guy will think you're really keen and want to actually talk and stuff.'

Sara looked at him askance for a moment, before replying, somewhat sadly, 'Nah. I haven't had a date, let alone a hot one in… God, longer than I'd like to admit.'

'Don't worry,' responded Greg cheerfully, 'no one else in the lab has either. It's like we're all cursed or something. Vincent in trace? He's going nuts. Hasn't had any decent gossip in months.'

'Did someone say gossip?'

A click of heels announced a new arrival, and Sara and Greg turned their heads to see Catherine waltz through the door.

'Sadly only the lack of,' explained Greg, before attacking his food with renewed enthusiasm. 'You got any? Any hot dates?'

'Not for me, I'm afraid, unless you count this 'team building' meal I've got with Ecklie after shift. Some departmental heads-budgeting-economizing-buddy thing. Which I imagine means the food will be crap.'

Greg gave a sympathetic sigh. 'Still – at least you'll have Grissom for company.'

'Huh!' laughed Catherine, opening a carton of yogurt she'd found at the back of the fridge. 'I don't trust him to actually remember to show up.'

Just then the rest of the swing shift staggered into the break room. Nick and Warrick exchanged greetings with their former co-workers; since Ecklie had split the graveyard shift, they had all had less opportunity to catch up than they would have liked.

'How about you two, then?' asked Sara. 'We were just asking Catherine if she had any action lined up – what will you guys be up to after shift?'

'Man, I'm so short on action I think my love life should be inspected by Doc Robbins,' sighed Nick. 'Still, my brother's up for a couple of weeks; got him in the guest room as we speak. So after shift, I've got to show him the sights and sounds of Vegas.' His mouth widened in a gaping yawn. 'I'd rather be catching some zees, to be honest.'

'Me, I'm a happily married man,' supplied Warrick, holding up his left hand. At the other side of the room, Catherine muttered something about a report and made a hasty retreat to her office. 'After shift I've got to be off home to Tina.'

'So basically,' concluded Greg, 'we're all as boring as hell. No offence.'

'Speak for yourself, my man,' said Nick as he slid on his jacket. 'Any road – I've got to be off. You coming, Rick?'

'Sure. Be seeing you guys.'

Greg and Sara waved at the swing-shifters as the door closed behind them. Sara had finished her food, and took a sip of her coffee as she watched Greg down the last of his curry.

'Ah,' he murmured with a contented sigh, 'that was good. Not too spicy, not too mild.'

'You tried the soup yet?' asked Sara.

'No, not yet; I was waiting for it to cool down a bit first. Man, I love a bit of shrimp. Anyway, what was it you were saying earlier, when we were with Hodges?'

'What? Oh.' Sara pushed her plate to one side and retrieved the trace report from its manila folder. 'It's just something that the wife said in the interview. I asked her what she and her husband ate that night – she said her husband had the soup, then the curry.'

'Ah… and Hodges said that our vic never ate the curry. Which is a shame, considering how good it is.'

'Right… so I'm thinking little lie, big lie? I think we need to go back, check out all the details of her story.'

'Jesus!' cried Greg suddenly. 'Man, that is…' he began coughing, and, racing to the sink, poured himself a glass of water.

Sara ran to his side. 'Are you okay? You're not choking or anything, are you? Because I don't think I can perform the Heimlich maneuver.'

Greg spluttered and, downing the water, quickly turned to refill his glass. 'No, no, I'm fine. It's just… that stuff is _hot_.'

'The soup?'

'Yeah. I don't know if it's an off batch or something, but that stuff should have a biohazard label.'

'Maybe. Or maybe you just can't take the heat.' Greg shot her a withering glance. 'Okay, so that was a terrible joke. But seriously, Hodges tested the control sample against what Marshall ate, and it was the same composition. Which may explain how our vic could have taken a fatal dose without realizing it.'

'Yeah,' replied Greg, searching the fridge for something to take away the burning sensation on his tongue. 'You could probably douse that bowl with syrup of ipecac and the only thing you'd notice would be the chili. Well, until you started yakking all over the place anyway.'

'Exactly.' Sara gathered their plates from the table and washed them as Greg hopped around her, sucking on an ice cube. She shook her head and smiled; he was a funny guy, whether he meant to be or not. She glanced across the hall; from her position she could see Archie gazing intently at his computer screen, and Ronnie the paper analysis tech apologizing as he bumped into an intern rounding the corridor. Sara turned and fixed her gaze instead on the smooth glass wall in front of her. The reflection was indistinct, but as she watched Greg pace around, checking Hodges' report, she felt that odd twinge of heart again, the one that caused the blood to rise in her cheeks.

She decided. Without turning her head, she called out his name.

'Uhuh?'

'Do you feel like going out for a drink maybe after shift?' You know… we can be like the mutual consolation society or something.'

For a moment, Greg thought that he might choke on his ice cube. As a dreamy lab technician he'd fantasized about this moment a hundred times, formulated a hundred suave replies. And here he was, living the dream. He felt like kicking himself therefore when despite his best intentions, his forward planning, he heard himself mutter the immortal words 'yeah, okay.'


	10. Both Sides, Now

_**Author's Note:** thanks for all the reviews that have come in. If I were a master in the art of suspense, I would be eking out these chapters and making you beg, or something. But I'm rubbish at that sort of thing, so I seem to be updating ridiculously regularly. This is obviously because I'm meant to be doing Other Things, but that's another story… read on. Oh, and review, an' all._

_Oh yes – and the chapters have titles now, see? If you can guess where they all come from, I'll be well impressed._

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The rest of that evening's shift was uneventful – no gangland shootouts, no domestics that got out of hand, not even a good old-fashioned household breaking and entering. In fact, there were no call-outs at all, as Grissom had informed them on his way out of the lab.

'A quiet night in Vegas,' he marveled. 'Wonders never cease.'

'What night is it – Monday?' asked Greg. 'Everyone must have got their fighting rocks off over the weekend. Nice tie, by the way, Griss.'

'Thanks.' Grissom rolled his eyes as he struggled with the knot. 'Some departmental heads meal thing with Ecklie…'

'So we've heard,' remarked Sara. 'Catherine's going to be pleased; she thought you'd forgotten.'

'I should be so lucky. Opened my emails this evening – there's three marked 'urgent' from our friend upstairs, stressing 'the importance of the presence of all members of the team', along with some stuff about 'group responsibility' and 'proactive management', or whatever.'

'Man, I wish I could be there,' sighed Greg. 'Sounds like Buzzword Bingo heaven.'

Grissom looked at the young man, puzzled. 'Buzzword Bingo?'

'It's a game,' supplied Sara. 'Junior executives in the big corporations play it in meetings; you write down all the company buzzwords, like 'interpersonal organization' or 'sensitive spokesmanship', or whatever, then cross them off as they come up.'

'First one to get a straight line's the winner,' finished Greg. 'Maybe you and Catherine should have a go; sounds like Ecklie likes his jargon.'

'You don't know the half of it,' replied Grissom despondently. 'Anyway, I've got to be off. You two don't have to stay too long either; if you don't have anything outstanding, by all means get yourselves home early. God knows we don't often get the chance.' The supervisor shrugged on his jacket. 'See you both tomorrow. Wish me luck.'

The remains of the graveyard shift waved their goodbyes, and Grissom was off.

'I'm impressed, Sar,' said Greg once they were alone again. 'I didn't think you remembered all that stuff I told you.'

'I'm like an elephant,' she replied jokingly with a smile. 'So… got anything left to do tonight?'

'Nah, not really. Most of my paperwork's in order. You?'

'Me neither – there isn't much we can do with the Marshall case until we hear back from Brass. He said he was onto their financial records, which sounded interesting, but until then…'

'…We're just spare parts.'

Sara nodded in agreement. 'So,' she said, as casually as she could, 'shall we go and get that drink?'

'Sure,' came Greg's rapid reply. 'Just give me ten minutes to get hold of Hodges' signature and I'll meet you in the parking lot.'

As soon as Greg was gone, Sara made a beeline for her locker, fished out her purse and was off to the bathroom. She peered at her face in the mirror. She didn't tend to wear much make-up at work; to be honest, given the extent of her social life, she didn't tend to wear much make-up at all. She remembered how years ago, at a scene, Catherine had remarked how Sara didn't tend to care about how she looked. It was a throwaway comment, taken out of context, but looking in the mirror now Sara was plagued by insecurity over her appearance. Her nose looked a little shiny, and there were circles under her eyes, and that damn gap in her teeth… opening her purse, she pulled out her make-up bag and examined its contents. A bit of concealer, powder and eyeliner? Don't want to look like I've made too much of an effort, she thought. It's only a drink, anyway; just a drink with Greg…

On the other side of the mirror, in the men's bathroom, Greg sighed and looked at his reflection. You are not looking your best, my man, he thought, running a hand through his hair. He was hardly an ace for punctuality, and there hadn't been time for a shave before shift tonight. He took in his clothes – band tee shirt, striped button-down on top, jeans, hi-tops. Same as he wore every day. He put his hand around a bicep. There was no denying it – he was not a built-up guy. Not like Nick, or Warrick, or Hank… he sighed. I'm a skinny bastard in crappy clothes, and I'm going out for a drink with a woman I've been obsessing over for… what, four years? He sucked in a deep breath. Calm down, Greggo, said the voice inside his head. It's not a date, or anything. After all, she still thinks of you as the little lab rat. What was it she was saying the other day? Not a grown-up, that was it. Laughing, showing that damn sexy gap in her teeth… laughing with you, or at you?

That'll just have to do, thought Sara, running a finger under her eye to straighten out the pencil line. God, I'm crap at this. She took a couple of paces back, took in her whole reflection, then turned to the side. Damn; little bit of a belly on me. Should work out more. It's all that junk food Greg keeps pushing on you, she thought bitterly. How come he never seems to put on weight? Lucky bastard. How is it fair that the man gets to stay slim and pretty?

That'll just have to do, thought Greg, playing with his hair for one last time. God, I'm crap at this. He took a couple of paces back, took in his whole reflection. For God's sake, man; on a dark night, anyone would think you were still a teenager. You still get ID'd sometimes, not that you're prepared to admit it. God… what if you get ID'd with her? You'd never live it down. Because she's tall and slim and beautiful, and what are you?

On both sides of the mirror came a sigh. It's just a drink, right?

Just a drink.


	11. Alone, Together

_**Author's Note:** sorry, folks. After saying last time that I was updating ridiculously regularly, Real Life promptly took over and I've been running up and down the country all week. However, coming back from London on the train the other night, I managed to write some of this. Oh, and thanks for the reviews that have come in already – as Greg says in this chapter, flattery will get you everywhere. Please keep 'em coming. ;)_

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Sara turned her head and glanced out of the window behind her. The sky outside was a deep purple, streaks of red heralding the dawn. Casino pit workers, finished for the night, started to filter into the diner for breakfast, or dinner, or whatever meal it was; working the graveyard shift left you out of sync with the world, and no one knew that better than Sara.

'Are you alright?'

Greg's cheery voice pulled her back to reality. Looking back at their table, she saw that the waitress had already set down two large, steaming coffees (decaffeinated, at her insistence), a short stack of pancakes with syrup and for good measure, a hearty slice of cheesecake. Sara's eyes widened in disbelief. 'You're going to eat all that? For breakfast?'

Greg prodded a pancake with his fork. 'Yeah. Well, you can help if you like. Want one?'

'Greg, we ate a forty-dollar curry less than three hours ago. I thought you said that was breakfast.'

'Yeah, well… I'm still hungry.'

Sara shook her head and laughed. 'What are you, some freak-of-nature, genetic-experiment-gone-wrong eating machine?'

'I like my food,' he mumbled through a mouthful of cheesecake.

'And that stuff, before you go to bed! Think of all the refined carbohydrates in that. You'll be buzzing for the next three hours.'

'It's worth it,' he replied with a contented sigh.

'Seriously Greg – where does all that stuff go? You're skinny as a rail…'

'Oh, thanks.'

'What do you do? Run for miles? Go to the gym?'

'What?' he spluttered. 'I don't think I've willingly stepped into one of those in my entire life.'

'Come on, what is it? Because I and the rest of womankind would really like to know.'

'I dunno,' said Greg with a shrug. 'I must just have a high metabolism, I guess.'

'High metabolism is a myth. I bet you do work out really,' she teased.

Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. 'Sara, if I worked out do you think my muscles would feel like that?'

She looked up and met his gaze. Unsure of how she should react, she decided to go for jocular. 'Nope, you win. You definitely don't work out.'

Greg raised an eyebrow. 'In the interests of our continuing working relationship, I'm going to make no reply to that comment.'

'I didn't mean that it was a bad thing,' she added hastily. 'I don't really like that whole muscle thing anyway. You look fine as you are.'

'Oh really?' challenged Greg, cocking an eyebrow once more. 'Let me warn you, Sidle, flattery will get you nowhere.' He paused for a moment. 'Wait – what am I saying? Forget that. Flattery will get you everywhere. Please, flatter me some more.'

Sara smiled with relief. The moment of tension was over, and once again Greg was being his usual facetious self. She reached over the table and, pulling the plate of pancakes toward her, decided to change the subject. 'So – what did you want with Hodges?'

'Oh… I just needed to get him to sign some trace reports; he forgot to do them earlier.'

'Pleased to see you?'

'Hardly.'

'There's a surprise.'

'Don't be too hard on him, Sar; I can see where he's coming from.'

'What?' cried Sara, choking on her pancake. 'You're sticking up for Hodges, now?'

'I'll admit that he's not my favorite person in the world, it's just that I can see where he's coming from. As a former lab tech, I mean. Because it can get pretty stressful, with people bringing you evidence all the time and wanting their stuff done straight away, forgetting that everyone else is doing exactly the same thing. When you've got a backlog and a queue of people wanting results, things can get a little… heated.'

'Hmm. Now you put it like that…' Sara sipped her coffee thoughtfully. 'So, I take it you're not regretting your decision to turn CSI?'

'God no. I've been wanting to be doing this kind of thing for years. I mean, I've been working in the lab here for… what, six years? Seven? I don't know. Don't get me wrong, I'd have been perfectly happy to carry on being the DNA boy if Grissom hadn't let me make the change, but with this job I get to see the whole picture, you know? In the lab, it was like I got to put in a few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, and you guys got to do the fun part.' He shook a packet of sugar and emptied it into his coffee before adding, 'the pay cut's still hurting though.'

Sara paused for a moment. She'd forgotten all about that. As a senior lab technician, Greg earned twice what he earned as a level one CSI; he probably earned more than she did herself as a level three. In the space of a minute her respect for the man had increased exponentially. To give up a senior position and a decent salary in order to do what you really wanted in life took courage – more courage than most. 'I think you've been really brave,' she said.

'Well done, Sar – you're getting the hang of this flattery thing,' he replied with a wink.

'No, I'm serious. You wanted a change, and you made it happen – you didn't just wait for it to happen to you, and you were prepared to make sacrifices. I'm really proud of you; we're all proud of you.'

Greg blushed. 'Hey, thanks. That means a lot to me.'

'Have you thought about applying elsewhere? I mean Ecklie's cracked down on our budget, but I'm sure you could find a county with better wages somewhere in the country.'

'No… I don't really want to do that.'

'Why not?'

'Well…' Greg smiled shyly, and ran a hand through his hair. 'I've been here so long now that it's home, really. That and… well, I really like working with you guys. I think that's worth any extra money I might make.'

Sara smiled and reaching over, ruffled her partner's hair. 'Aaaah,' she cooed. 'That was really sweet.'

'Okay, okay, so that was really cheesy,' muttered Greg in embarrassment. 'What I really meant was I can't be bothered with the hassle of having to move and everything. Another interstate haul? No thanks.'

For a moment, they were both silent, but it was a comfortable silence.

'You know how I said once that you were really good at what you do?'

Greg nodded in reply.

'Well, I still think so.'


	12. Watch That Man

Nick yawned as he rounded the corner of the corridor. Jeez, he thought, I'm dog-tired. Okay, so the hours on swing shift were more sociable than those on graveyard, but they certainly weren't any shorter. He rifled through the file in his hands. Some geniuses had decided to commit an insider break-in at one of the forum shops, but used one of their own key cards to get in. He sighed. When they made it this easy, it was just boring. Still, a trip to the AV lab was in order; that at least offered an opportunity to tease Archie about how he made his girlfriend sit through an entire weekend of Star Trek. She hadn't been pleased, according to Greg.

When he got there, however, he didn't find the AV technician sitting at a computer terminal, but Sara, singing along to a CD she had playing. She hadn't noticed him, he realized, and was happily tapping her fingers on the desk as she waited for a database to load.

'Well hello, Little Miss Sunshine!'

Sara looked up from her place to see Nick waving at her from the doorway. 'Huh?'

'Maybe that should be Little Miss Disoriented. You seem to be in a good mood; what's happened to you that's put the sunshine in your veins?'

'Nothing,' she muttered hastily, cheeks coloring slightly. 'And no Little Miss-ing at all, if you know what's good for you, Mr Stokes,' she added as a warning.

'Okay, okay… I think I've got the message. Where's Archie?'

'On a break.'

'Right. And you're…?'

'Not on a break.' She gestured toward the computer screen. You know the Marshall case Greg and I are working on?'

'Jonathan Marshall, guy who owns those department stores? Yeah… I remember. Hodges was complaining about having to do the trace on his stomach contents. Something about a curry?'

Sara smiled. 'Yeah. Well anyway, Jacqui found a foreign print on a bag of chips, and lucky for us, our guy has a record. I was just looking him up; see if I could find any details.'

'And the, er, music?'

'Oh,' said Sara, embarrassed, 'It's just a Blondie CD. I only had it on tape, so Greg copied it for me. Just thought I'd try it out; haven't heard it in years. Do you want me to turn it off?'

'No, no, carry on. Ah, Greg,' sighed Nick, 'that explains it all. I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but I kinda miss my daily dose of Greg noise with my DNA results.'

'If you feel like heading toward the layout room, I'm pretty sure you could get yourself a fix; when I left him he was air-drumming along to _Paranoid Android_.'

'What? Let me guess – British?'

'Yeah. Hold on, let me remember… it's Radiohead, or something, I think.'

'Well done, Sar! You're really coming along with that whole popular culture thing. Hey, Nick.'

Nick and Sara turned their heads to see the man himself amble into the AV room, customary grin on his face and coffee cup in his hand.

'I don't really have a whole lot of choice, do I?' countered Sara sarcastically. 'Not when you hijack the car stereo every time we get called out.'

'Come on Sar, you love it. And you're playing your present already, I see: proof.'

'Blondie's different. There's much less whining.'

'Thom Yorke does not whine,' countered Greg, aghast. 'That's the voice of… the tortured intellectual.'

'So intellectual he doesn't know how to spell his own name?' quipped Sara in reply.

Nick shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. 'You know what? I have no idea what you guys are talking about. Give me good ol' Willie Hank anytime.'

Greg's features contorted in mock disgust. 'You know, as soon as I'm finished working on Sara here, I'm moving straight onto you.'

'But I'm from Texas, man!' complained Nick. 'It's my heritage…'

'That's no excuse.'

'Sooo, Greg,' interrupted Sara, 'did you come here just to insult us, or did you have something important to say?'

'Obviously the latter, oh esteemed colleague,' he replied, performing a mocking little bow, and spilling his coffee in the process. 'Oh, shit… anyway, I've been on the case, as it were. I managed to pull our vic's medical records, and had a word with his psychiatrist, a Dr Yeoh. She said that he'd been responding well to treatment on his SNRI drugs – they're different to SSRIs like Prozac because they work on serotonin and norepinephrine reuptake simultaneously,' he explained. 'Seemed to be working; his last few visits he'd been feeling very positive, apparently. She certainly didn't seem to think that he was a suicide risk.'

'Right,' said Sara. 'So the professional's opinion says that suicide is looking less likely?'

'Yup. Pity she can't tell us what's looking more likely, though.'

'Well, I've been onto our friend Mr Chapman, the Chip Man…'

'Ha! You're a poet and you don't know it!' joked Greg.

Sara groaned. 'Hardly. His conviction was for fraud and identity theft, so he's got a fair list of aliases – pretty good ones too, by the look of it.'

'They can't be that good, or he wouldn't have ended up in jail.'

'Thanks for pointing that out. Anyway, my point is, if he's staying in the local area, it's highly unlikely he's going to be using his real name.'

'True. Any credit card transactions?'

'Nope; again, aliases… I've checked the known ones, but you can be pretty sure the guy still has his contacts and another identity up his sleeve.'

'Maybe your guy has family in the area, and that's why he came,' suggested Nick.

'It's a possibility, I guess,' replied Sara. 'I'll have a look into it. Still, what I can't get my head around is what this guy has to do with anything. I mean, we printed all over the house, windows, doorknobs, and he wasn't anywhere else. Maybe the chips bag is just a red herring – somehow it ended up in the yard and someone tidied up.'

'Hmm,' pondered Greg, 'I'd be willing to buy that if it weren't for the fact that the guy would have had to travel through five state borders just to leave that bag in the Marshalls' yard.'

'Thanks,' muttered Sara. 'Anything else you'd like to add?'

'Yeah, actually. What I really came to tell you is Brass called. He said he'd been looking into the Marshalls' finances and you'd told him to call, so he called. Wants us over at PD.'

'What?' Sara sighed. 'Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?'

'I got sidetracked.' Greg set the remains of his coffee down on the desk and held his hand toward the door. 'Anyway, coming?'

After much grumbling, dawdling and playful banter, Sara and Greg said their goodbyes and headed toward the parking lot. Nick plopped himself into the vacated chair and watched them leave. They were an odd pair. He thought back on all the times over the years when the then-technician had succeeded in rubbing her up the wrong way; he'd felt sure the two would come to blows one day. But then Sara had surprised him by actually volunteering to be Greg's mentor. The Lord works in mysterious ways, as his mother would say. Nick picked up Greg's abandoned mug and sniffed at its contents. He wasn't normally the type to pounce on someone else's leftovers, but he was tired, he reasoned; he couldn't be bothered to walk all the way to the break room to make another pot, and besides, by the look of it he'd finally got his hands on a sample of Greg's fabled Blue Hawaiian, forty-bucks-a-pound secret stash. He took a sip. Yup – this was definitely the good stuff, not the motor oil that he usually had to swallow now that Ecklie had cut back on the budget. Nick stretched for a moment, then set to work on his no-brainer burglars. It might be boring, he thought, but I'll be home the sooner for it.


	13. Tangled Up In Blue

Strolling up to the office, Greg knocked on the door and waved through the glass window at its occupant. Brass was sitting at his desk, telephone in hand, a muffled conversation just audible to the pair in the hallway. Looking up, he noticed the two CSIs and beckoned for them to enter.

Sara closed the door quietly behind them, and the pair settled themselves into chairs. She looked around the captain's office. It's funny what a person's office can say about them, she thought. Brass's was rather unexpectedly spartan – some bookshelves, only half-filled, a potted plant or two. Apart from the framed photographs of his daughters positioned discreetly on his desk, there was very little in the room that gave away anything about its owner. It was in strong contrast with Grissom's lair, that dimly-lit shrine to all things entomological. Grissom's office seemed at odds with its owner's personality, and his almost pathological fear of letting anyone know anything about him. Spend an hour in that room, and you would have at least a decent idea of what made the man tick.

But not so with Brass. I suppose it has to be like this, mused Sara. Potential suspects walk into this room everyday, and with them he can't be Jim, the divorced guy from Jersey with a couple of estranged daughters; he has to be Captain Brass, chief homicide detective for Clark County in the state of Nevada.

His call over, Brass put the telephone down, the receiver clicking dully into place. 'Sorry about that, guys. Got the sheriff on my back – again. I've been thinking of disconnecting my phone. Anyway,' he continued, 'you're here about the Marshall case, right? Well, feast your eyes on these.' The detective fished around in his in-tray, and placed a blue file on the desk in front of them. 'I got in touch with our vic's insurance company; turns out the guy had a three million dollar policy on his head. I think that's what in this business we call 'motive'.'

Greg whistled. 'Sheesh.'

'She put her claim in pretty quickly, too,' remarked Sara, looking through Brass's notes.

'Yeah, but of course the insurance company is withholding payment until the coroner reaches a verdict,' replied Brass. 'I think it's time we had another chat with our grieving widow, don't you?'

* * *

Greg glanced across the table at Sara, then back at their subject. This was the first time he had had a proper look at Sandra Marshall, and he had to admit she was an impressive woman. Impressive, that was, in the same way that his fifth grade teacher had been – perfectly coiffed, dressed and manicured. In other words, she was the sort of woman who ever since had filled him with a strange sense of dread, and an uncontrollable impulse to sit straight in his chair.

Behind him, Brass was pacing the length of the interview room. Clearing his throat, he approached the table and addressed Mrs Marshall. 'I thought you might need these again,' he said, pushing a box of tissues towards the woman. 'I remember last time you getting a little teary.'

'Thank you,' she replied, reaching for a sheet then dabbing delicately at her eyes.

'Upsetting, isn't it?' said the detective. 'When you don't get what you want.'

Sandra sniffed and looked at Brass. 'Whatever do you mean by that?'

'Come on, I think we're past playing games now,' he replied. 'How about that insurance policy for three million you were after? You must be pretty upset about that. I would be, after all the trouble you've gone to.'

'What on Earth are you suggesting?'

'Oh, I'm suggesting that you planned this very carefully. I think you killed your husband. I think you slipped him an overdose in his soup so he wouldn't notice. Did he eat it for bravado, to prove how macho he was, how hot he could take it? Did that piss you off?'

'This is ridiculous.'

'Is it?' asked Sara. 'You didn't seem to waste any time lodging that insurance claim.'

'That's my right; I'm Jonathan's next of kin. He wanted me to have that money.'

'I'm sure he did,' muttered Brass, 'but I doubt he expected it to happen through quite this turn of events.'

'You and your husband hadn't been married that long, had you?' asked Greg, leafing through the file in front of him. 'State records show that you got married here in Vegas in 1998 – that's, what, seven years ago?'

'Jonathan and I met late in life. His first wife died from cancer in her early forties.'

'That's right,' said Brass, pulling out a chair for himself. 'He was a widower, no kids. All that money and no one to share it with? It's not surprising he wasn't feeling that happy. Until you came along, right? Then you made it all better.'

We… had a connection. We were good for each other.'

'I see. You're, what, forty-five, Mrs Marshall?' Brass put up a hand. 'Please don't try and contest that fact, we have it on record. And your husband was considerably older, wasn't he?'

'Sixty-two,' supplied Greg, looking through his case file.

'Right,' continued the detective. 'So, was it his great sense of humor, or the size of his wallet?'

'This is slander,' Sandra sniffed angrily. 'You'll be hearing from my lawyer.'

'Oh, I'm sure we will. Or perhaps it'll be the other way round. Because Mrs Marshall, I have to say, it isn't looking good for you. The story you told Ms Sidle here, about what you ate that night? Didn't check out.'

'What do you expect? Can you remember what your wife ate for dinner last Thursday?'

'Oh, that one's easy – nothing. I don't have a wife; well, not anymore. But this isn't about me. Look. Your husband died of a fatal overdose which it seems almost certain he wasn't aware he'd taken. The next day, you try and claim three million on his life insurance. It doesn't look good, does it? And to cap it all, his psychiatrist says he'd seemed happier than he had in a long time.'

'What does she know?' snorted Sandra bitterly. 'Just goes to show she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about.'

'Are you suggesting that Dr Yeoh misjudged your husband's condition?' asked Sara.

'Have you ever been to a shrink?' Sara shifted uncomfortably at the woman's question. 'Well, they're all full of crap. You're just one patient on the books; they ask you the same questions over and over – are you feeling better this week, Mr Marshall? Oh yes. Not suffering from any suicidal thoughts? Oh, no. Doing fine on the meds? Oh, absolutely. I knew what he was really like; I had to live with him seven days a week.'

'So you're saying that your husband's condition was more serious than his psychiatrist was led to believe?'

'Yes,' replied Sandra, dabbing at her eyes once more, before continuing hesitantly, 'Jonathan always felt… embarrassed about his depression. He didn't want to let people know about it, about how he was really feeling. He said it was as though he were two different people, and that when he was depressed he would do things he'd never dream of doing when he was normal.'

'Things like…?'

Sandra's voice was barely above a whisper. 'Killing himself.'

'So,' said Greg, 'you're saying…'

'Yes, my husband committed suicide. And I covered it up.'

Wow, thought Sara. There's a U-turn for you. 'So… what happened? And why did you feel the need to lie about it?'

'My husband was a successful businessman; his business is still successful. A scandal like that, that the founder killed himself – Jonathan wouldn't have wanted that. Not rational Jonathan. After I got off the phone, I went upstairs to see how he was feeling, but when I got there, he was dead. I panicked; I knew that it would come out in the press, and I didn't want him to be remembered like that. So I pulled him out of bed, took him to the top of the stairs and pushed him down. I didn't realize that you would be able to tell… that he…' the woman dissolved into sobs and attacked the box of tissues with renewed gusto.

* * *

'So,' said Brass, the three of them sitting in his office once again, 'What do we make of that? Do we think she's telling the truth?' 

'Well, like I said before, to you in fact, family and friends who discover the body of someone who's killed themselves sometimes stage the scene to look like murder,' replied Greg. 'No suicide stigma and also the life insurance...'

'Which she's just lost any chance of getting by admitting she staged the crime,' interrupted Sara. 'Turning down three million? Maybe she really is innocent.'

'I dunno,' mused Brass from his desk. 'I really liked the wife for this one. It's an odd one, this. One minute everything seems to point to the wife, then the next, it turns out that the whole situation's changed. I'm still not entirely convinced. I think I need to do some more digging, and you guys have got to go through the evidence we've got with a fine-tooth comb.'

'Yeah,' sighed Greg, 'and there's still the matter of the Mysterious Doritos-Eating Dude…'


	14. The Chemistry Between Us

_**Author's Note:** Quite a short chapter this one folks, I'm sorry. Still, this one has more Greg-Sara interaction, which was somewhat lacking in the last chapter, and which I'm hoping was the reason why it got **no reviews**.:p_ _Anyway, that last chapter was important for plot development purposes, so tough._

_ Ho hum; please read and review this one and make me happy. Hopefully the follow-up shouldn't be too long coming.  
_

_

* * *

_

'So what have we got?' asked Sara, tapping her hands on the steering wheel as they drove back to the lab. 'A seriously depressed guy who fell down the stairs after he was already dead. A wife who admits to throwing him down those stairs to cover up an apparent suicide…'

'And an ex-con who travels from Chicago to Vegas just to eat a bag of chips,' added Greg.

Sara glanced from the road to the man sitting beside her. 'You're obsessed with this guy, aren't you?'

'What? No.' He twisted in his seat. 'It's just weird, don't you think? It seems like too much to be just coincidence. I'd bet my ass he's involved somewhere along the line.'

'Careful with that ass of yours,' teased Sara. 'It'd be a shame if you lost it.'

'Oh?' replied Greg archly. His lips turning into his trademark lopsided grin, he decided to press his advantage. 'You think a lot about my ass, do you?'

Sara smirked. 'In your dreams, Greggo.'

Greg leaned back and sighed. 'You have no idea…' he murmured, before throwing Sara a good-natured wink. 'Don't worry; I'm only kidding. Well, mostly...'

Sara gripped harder on the steering wheel. Come on, woman, she thought. Keep your mind on the case, not on the man. Well, not _that_ man… She threw a quick glance to her right; Greg was fumbling in the glove box, mumbling something about how she just had to hear this track or she'd never lived.

When did it happen? When did she go from seeing him as faintly irritating to finding him incredibly attractive? We're not even the same sort of people, she reasoned. Are we? She sighed and stared at the traffic in front of her. Sometimes it's not that simple. Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. Not that Greg's appearance was unpleasant, by any means; after all, she had got to inspect the goods before buying, as it were, that time in the decontamination shower. It just wasn't the sort of appearance that she usually went for…

'Hello? Is there anybody home?'

For a moment Sara just stared straight ahead, feeling strangely disoriented. 'Huh?'

Greg shook his head. 'Have you been listening to anything I've just said?'

'What? Yeah,' replied Sara quickly, 'I mean, no. I was thinking…'

Greg narrowed his eyes. 'About what?'

'Nothing,' she muttered, defensive. 'Look, I'm driving, remember? I've got to concentrate, unless you want Grissom to be scraping that pretty ass of yours off the road in the near future and putting it in a bindle.'

'Haha!' laughed Greg, clapping a hand to his forehead and miming a comedy swoon. '_Pretty_ now? She loves me…'

Sara felt a sudden flush of shame, and decided to conceal it in her usual manner, that of hostility. 'Shut up, Greg. Can't you just be serious, for once in your life?'

Feeling chided, Greg straightened himself in his chair before replying 'actually, I was being serious just a moment ago, but obviously you didn't hear, because you were away with the fairies…'

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Looking at Sara, he could see her brow furrowing and her lips pursing in just that way that usually told him to get out of the way, fast. Unfortunately, sitting next to her as he was, strapped into the Tahoe, he realized that his only option was to apologise. However, just as he started to stutter his words of contrition, he heard Sara doing the same.

'Look Sara, I'm sorr…'

'Shit, Greg, I didn't mean to be like that…'

Coming to a halt at an intersection, they looked across at one another and smiled.

Greg whistled. 'Man, we are dumb sometimes, huh?'

Sara nodded in agreement. 'Have you taken a break yet this shift?' she asked.

'Nope. You?'

'Me neither. What do you say to calling Grissom and telling him we're going to grab some dinner?'

Greg grinned back at his partner, and pulled out his cell phone. 'Sounds like a plan.'


	15. Les Professionnels

_**Author's Note:** Sorry ladies (and gentlemen, if there are any) for taking so long in updating. I could offer all manner of excuses, but I shall refrain from doing so, because it'd probably take up about as much space as the chapter that follows. Instead, I shall wish you all a belated Happy New Year, and hope that you enjoy this chapter. And also review it. Thank you. ;)_

* * *

'Hmm. God Bless Italia,' murmured Greg as he twisted up a forkful of spaghetti and popped it into his mouth. 'Pass me the garlic bread will you, Sar?'

Sara complied and passed the dish to her colleague, who eagerly tore off a chunk. 'Greg, you're such a bad influence, you know,' she teased as he returned the plate.

'What on Earth do you mean?' he muttered, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.

'Whenever I work with you on a case, I seem to eat about twice as much as normal.'

'It's good for you,' replied Greg, grinning.

'I weighed myself this morning. I've put on three pounds this week.'

'Oh, that's probably just water retention or something. Anyway, it doesn't show.'

'I feel fat!'

Greg shook his head in mock disappointment. 'Sara, Sara,' he sighed, ' I thought you were beyond such foolish notions as worrying about your weight.'

'Then you clearly have no comprehension of the female psyche.'

''Nope,' he replied cheerfully, 'but isn't that all part of the fun?' He ducked as the tail-end of a breadstick was aimed at his shoulder. 'But seriously, Sar, you have nothing to worry about, believe me. You look amazing. In fact, Nick was saying before shift he thought you were looking especially… what was the word?' Greg paused for a moment, lost in thought. 'Radiant, that's it.'

Sara blushed. 'Really?'

'Yeah. I said it was probably all the artificial colors and preservatives taking effect on you… hey!' He held up his hands in defense once more as Sara brandished her breadstick threateningly. 'Anyway, you should feel honored that I let you eat all that stuff. I would eat it all myself if I didn't like you so much,' he said with a wink.

Sara turned to her left to see a middle-aged couple glaring at them, their faces full of disapproval. 'People are looking,' she murmured conspiratorially, her eyes fixed on her plate.

'I thought people only said things like that to each other when they'd been married for twenty years,' Greg whispered back.

'Oh really?' replied Sara, smiling again. 'In that case, I doubt that you're aware that most arguments between couples under forty happen when women try to steal French fries from their partners' plates.'

'I wasn't, but now you say it, it's perfectly understandable. Not that I would mind, being the sensitive new-age guy that I am, obviously. But is it bad enough to drive someone to murder?'

'Who knows? People can be so unpredictable. You remember that case a couple years back in that apartment block, where the guy stuffed his wife in the hot water tank? He said he did it because she nagged him.'

'Sheesh,' muttered Greg, before polishing off the remains of his pasta. 'It's so unfair, you know. Just when I thought that this case was going to go all cool and high profile murder-y, it goes all limp and suicide-y on me.'

'Nice turn of phrase you've got there, Greggo.'

'Okay, okay… I didn't mean to sound really callous or anything. Except I did… oh well. You know what I mean.'

Sara smiled. 'Yeah. Still - murder or no murder, we still have things to do. You heard what Brass said; he's still not convinced. I think what we have to do now is to prove whether or not the wife's case stands up.'

'Right. So she says she found him already dead, surmising that he must have prepared the codeine himself. So we check trace constituents to see how it might have been done – most likely a coffee grinder, I suspect. I remember doing this kind of thing with the naratriptamine in the Dougie Max case.'

'Good thinking, Greggo. Anything else?'

'Hey, I've already thought of an idea; now it's your turn.'

His mentor raised an eyebrow in mock disapproval. 'Okay then… the wife says she dragged him from the master bedroom to the top of the stairs, then pushed him down. We need to make sure that that journey is physically possible.'

'Right.'

'So there you go,' said Sara. 'Plenty for us to be getting on with.'

'Yes ma'am.'

Sara set down her fork, and looked up at Greg. Having already finished his own, large, portion, he was continuing to break pieces off the remaining garlic bread. The guy was a human trashcan. But he was a sweet one. 'You're doing really well, Greg.'

'Yeah I know – I've finished already. Unlike some people,' he replied, gesturing at her plate still dotted with chunks of eggplant and penne.

'I meant with the work.'

'Yeah, I know. Sorry.'

'Are you ever serious? About anything?'

'What? Yeah.' Feeling suddenly chided, Greg stopped working on the bread and hastily wiped his fingers on a napkin. 'Some things really get to me – you know, like when we have cases with children, or things like that. But if you take things too seriously, it's going to drive you crazy. At least, that's what I find.'

'No, no, I get that.'

'You know, Sara, don't get mad at me or anything, but you could really do with lightening up sometimes, you know? You're great at your job and I don't think I've ever seen anyone more dedicated – at anything, ever – but you need to relax more, clear your head.'

'Yeah,' sighed Sara, thinking of when Grissom had told her almost exactly the same thing over five years ago, even if it had been worded somewhat differently. 'I've been told that before.'

'Well then; I must be right,' said Greg, smiling.

Sara sighed again, and exhaled deeply. 'I'm not always serious either, you know.'

'I'm sure you aren't. In fact, I think you have the potential to be a really fun and lovely person… not that you aren't already,' he added hastily. 'You just… need to let go. I could show you; learn from the master.'

'Oh really?' inquired Sara archly.

'Yeah... time we redressed the balance of power round here, I reckon. What do you say? I think we should start on Monday. Monday, after shift.'

'And what exactly will be involved?'

'I dunno. Probably just coffee, knowing my powers of organization, but it's better than a night in with the Journal of Forensic Science.'

'Sounds tempting.'

'Doesn't it just? Anyway,' continued Greg, 'so does dessert, so you'd better get a move on with that pasta. Mine's a tiramisu…'


	16. Karma Police

* * *

The plan was set – it was time for an experiment. All the variables had been checked – weight of the victim, height of the bed, the length of the corridor in the Marshalls' house. In Sara's arms was a large, white forensics dummy, its featureless face fixed on the ceiling, and as she rounded the corridor she caught sight of Greg, struggling toward the department's elevator with a set of weights.

'Sorry, but are we working the same case?' inquired Sara, making her way toward her partner. 'I thought we were going to be doing this in the garage; that's where we usually do stuff like this.'

'Ungh!' Greg grunted in exertion as he shoved the last stack of weights across the floor.

'Are you okay? Why didn't you put them on a dolly or something? Something with wheels?'

Greg drew a deep breath, pressing his hands to the small of his back. Finally he straightened himself, before replying 'I didn't think of that.'

Sara tossed her head back, and shouldering her burden, let out a throaty laugh. 'Still… you feel like clueing me in, or anything?'

'All in good time. Get yourself in the elevator, and I'll explain. But first,' he added, pointing his thumb in the direction of his cargo, 'I'm going to act on your suggestion and go fetch a dolly so I don't slip a disc during round two.'

* * *

'Greg – you're not serious.'

'Deadly.'

'Come on – this isn't time for joking around. You know I'm on Ecklie's shit list.'

'Stop worrying,' he soothed. 'Everything's been sorted out.'

As the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, Sara stood speechless. While Greg busied himself hauling the weights onto the dolly, she walked toward the office door, its new brass nameplate glinting under the fluorescent lights – 'CONRAD ECKLIE – ASSISTANT DIRECTOR'. She had to hand it to the man; he didn't miss a beat when it came to self-promotion. Stepping closer, she peered through the reinforced glass of the door's window. In comparison to Grissom's office, Ecklie's was positively vast, yet entirely soulless. Sara shuddered as she recalled sitting in that chair in front of the desk, when he had made it quite clear he wanted her fired. At least he wasn't in there now. She wasn't keen to risk aggravating him again, considering his powers of life and death over her career. That was why Greg's scheme seemed to spell professional suicide for herself at least, even if her partner didn't see it for himself.

She decided to try and make the boy see sense one last time. 'Look; this is… insane. We can do this fine in the garage.'

'Come on, Sara – what does Grissom always say about doing an experiment? Always make sure you replicate all the variables!' Sara looked at him doubtfully. He continued. 'Right. When I first started out in the field, and I got paired up with Nick, all I got to do was draw up crime scenes and measure stuff. Remember that case with the sex-change clinic, murdered showgirl? Guess who got to go and drive her last mile? Or rather miles… yours truly. I'm very handy with a trundle wheel now, you know – always keep one in my trunk.'

'You've got one over me there.'

'Well anyway, back to the story. So, at the interrogation with Brass, when the wife said how she'd been the one who'd pushed him down the stairs, I thought 'Aha! Right. So she lifts this guy from his side of the bed, hauls him out of the room, down the corridor, onto the landing, them chucks him down the treads. Okay. Now, you've seen the size of Mrs Marshall – she can't be over 5' 2". On the other hand, our vic's 5' 9", 150lb, which is a little shy of what I weigh…'

'Letting slip your vital stats there, Mr Sanders?' teased Sara.

'Anything for you, Ms Sidle. Anyway, so I'm doubtful, you're doubtful, the good Captain is doubtful. I have a word with said Captain; apparently because it's suspicious circs, and the coroner hasn't ruled yet, the scene hasn't been released; the Wife's staying at the Tangiers for the time being. So I trundle off to Summerlin with my trusty trundle wheel, and I find,' he said, retrieving a notepad, 'that the Marshall's bed – including the mattress – is raised nineteen inches from the floor; that Mr Marshall slept on the side of the bed furthest from the door, so that's at least 26 feet; then from the bedroom door to the stairwell, that's another…' he checked his pad, '71 and a half feet. And not in a straight line, either.'

'Right. And the precise reason for our standing outside Ecklie's office is what?'

'Well, the incident allegedly took place on the upstairs floor of the house, and unless I'm missing something, the garage doesn't have one of those. On the other hand,' he said, flashing a grin, 'Ecklie's office is upstairs, and even better, just happens to be 70 feet from the stairwell. Or sixteen from the elevator. And now, it even has a bed.'

Sara looked the office window once again. Sure enough, propped against the wall was a folding bed frame she recognized from the one of the storerooms downstairs, with a mattress to match alongside. 'When did you do all this?'

'Oh, like, half an hour ago; I got Bobby D to give me a hand.'

'Does Grissom know about this?'

'What do you take me for? Of course he does. As does the director… it's all fair and above board.' He turned to face Sara, a reassuring smile on his face. 'You know, a lot of people don't like Ecklie that much, either.'

'You promise?'

'Cross my heart, hope to die,' he replied, hefting the last of the weights onto the dolly. Lowering his voice, he continued. 'Besides, it's about time Ecklie got a visit from the Karma Police. Even better that it's for the 'good of the lab', eh?'

Sara smiled, and hugged the fabric body in her arms to her chest. 'Okay, then… let's do it.'

* * *

Together the pair succeeded in maneuvering the bed into position, and now the dummy lay on the mattress, 145 pounds worth of weights strapped to its cloth torso.

'Right. So Mrs Marshall is 5' 2" – do you think we need to get Judy from reception again?'

'Maybe,' pondered Greg. 'You know, I don't think _I _could drag this guy that distance, but that might just be because I'm exhausted from hauling all those weights about in the first place.'

'You tell yourself that, Greggo.'

'Oh yeah? You wanna see if you can get him out that door?'

'Alright then,' she replied, rising to the challenge. 'Let's see what we can do, Mr Marshall.'

With that, Sara set to, trying various techniques to heft the dummy off of the bed. However, lacking adequate fastenings, the weights kept working free, leaving Sara with a markedly lighter load than was required.

'This doesn't seem to be working.'

'Yeah, well, Ecklie wouldn't approve the purchase for the new dummies we wanted where this wouldn't be a problem.'

'Why doesn't that surprise me?' Sara sighed, then paused for a moment. 'Hang on. How much do you weigh, Greg? Exactly.'

'Hey, getting a little forward there, aren't we?'

'Come on… how much?'

'Um… about 155 pounds, I think. I haven't exactly weighed myself in a while…'

'And you're what, 5' 10"?'

'And a half, don't forget that!'

'Right… that's pretty much perfect. Get on the bed, Greg.'

Greg's eyes widened as he stared at his partner. Quickly regaining his composure, he replied 'I thought you'd never ask.'

Sara's lips pursed into her trademark gap-toothed smile, before adding, 'Just lie down and pretend you're dead.'

'Yes ma'am,' he replied, tossing himself heavily onto the bed, which creaked loudly under such unaccustomed use. Sara laughed as he made a comedy 'death' face, his tongue lolling to one side.

'Okay, now… if I start to hurt you, just yell, okay?'

'Have no fear; I will.'

Sara grunted loudly with the effort of trying to lift Greg's frame from the mattress. Greg let his body hang limp, occasionally wincing when her attempts ended in pinching his flesh.

'Ow! You're doing it on purpose…'

'I didn't think the dead had the power of speech,' she deadpanned. Finally she succeeded in pulling Greg over the side of the bed, landing on the floor of Ecklie's office with a thud. 'This is harder than it looks.'

'Yeah; and you're about six inches taller than the wife,' replied the corpse.

'Hmm. Maybe she dragged him to the stairs?'

'Not really possible. If she had, there'd have been post-mortem dislocation in the shoulder joints, and remember he was wearing that belt with the studs in when he was found? That would have left scratches on the hard wood floor, and we didn't find any of those.'

'So her story doesn't add up yet again. Do you think we're looking for an accomplice now?'

'Yeah; probably male, and probably a good sight better built than me.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'Can someone explain what's going on?'

Both Greg and Sara snapped their heads towards the door to see the assistant lab director standing in the doorway. Sara did a hasty scope out of the office; Greg was lying crumpled on the floor with her leaning beside him, forensics paraphernalia littering the carpet. 'Well, Sir…' she began.

'We were just conducting an experiment, Sir,' interrupted Greg, quickly picking himself up and dusting himself down. Connected with the Marshall case.'

'In my office?'

'It was the only place in the department that fitted with the case variables, sir.'

'But you didn't think to ask, first?'

Greg pulled a face of concern. 'You mean, you didn't receive a memo about it sir? You weren't available, so I requested authorization from the director, and he said it was fine. I assumed you knew.'

'Evidently not. Now is this circus finished?'

'Oh yes, sir; got the results we need; though obviously if we'd had the correct apparatus…'

'Good,' cut in Ecklie. 'Now I need my office; I want you two out of here, now. And don't think I won't check with the director about this.'

'Oh, I don't doubt it,' muttered Sara, as she and Greg stooped to clean up the debris.

* * *

Replacing the equipment back in the garage, Sara sidled over to Greg and whispered, 'you weren't having me on, were you? About getting authorization?'

'No, seriously, I wasn't. I really did go to Grissom and the director.'

'But you didn't think to tell me about all this?'

He tapped her conspiratorially on the shoulder. 'No; that would have ruined the surprise. Did you enjoy it?'

'Well… yeah,' she acknowledged grudgingly.

'Excellent. Lesson one in the art of lightening up has been a success,' he said with a grin. 'Monday, remember? I told you we would start today. Feel like consolidating on our success with a coffee after shift?' he asked, decided to press his luck.

Sara grinned back, touched by the lengths he had gone to in order bring a smile to her face. 'Sure. I'll come and find you.'

'Counting on it,' he replied with a faux Rat Pack flourish.


	17. Lost and Found

_**Author's Note: **I think I've come to terms with the fact that this is never going to be a big hit of the Greg/Sara shipper community, but to the three or so faithful reviewers I have, I say a hearty thank you. ;) Anyway, I'd be really annoyed with myself if I didn't finish the story, so I'm going to complete it regardless of its lack of popularity. Besides, I know how the whole thing was done... muahahahaha...please read on. And perhaps review._

* * *

Sara didn't see Greg for the rest of the shift; he was out working a B&E in Henderson with Grissom. The Marshall case wasn't the only one they had to work with, she conceded with a sigh. Still, she had felt a pang of jealousy when Grissom had popped his head around the door of the break room to tell Greg to haul his ass out onto the parking lot – or at least more Grissomly words to that effect. It wasn't even that she'd wanted to go instead – God knew she had enough on her plate writing up the armed robbery she'd worked the other night.

She sat at the table in the layout room, chewing her pen as she thought about it. It wasn't that she was jealous of Greg for getting to work the case with Grissom, she realized; she was jealous of Grissom for getting to work with Greg. She and Greg were a team; anyone could see how well they worked together, for goodness' sake!

It took a moment for the epiphany to sink in. Faced with the same situation a couple of years ago, maybe even a couple of months ago, she'd have begrudged Greg for having the opportunity to bask in Grissom's presence, to bow before his eminent forensic genius, to even breathe the same air as him as they bent over the scattered shards of a broken French window. But now, she realized, it was Grissom she resented, for taking Greg away from her. She had grown used to him being there, she enjoyed his company, and she missed him when they worked apart. For so many years, laughter had been something other people did; since she had become Greg's mentor, she found herself laughing every day.

It was over. The passion for Gil Grissom that had brought her from San Francisco to Las Vegas was dead. But like a phoenix, from its ashes was rising something… something not yet definable, but tangible nonetheless. Something that concerned the live wire that was Greg Sanders.

She glanced at her watch - seven AM. If she could have seen the outside world, the sun would be up now, heralding the coming of the morn and the end of shift. Would Greg be back yet? She looked down at her data; the report would keep a few hours, certainly until tonight's shift. She would go and check.

On her way to the locker room, she passed Grissom's office. He was back, at least, sitting behind his desk, peering at some bug or other through a magnifier. Some things never change, she thought, and Grissom was one of those things.

She knocked on the glass of the door, and let herself in. 'Hi.'

Grissom looked up, squinting at her from the gloom of his office. 'Oh, hi Sara… sit down.'

'No, no… I was just coming to see if you'd got back yet, from the scene, and well, here you are.'

'Yes I am.'

She gazed at her shoe for a moment, suddenly awkward as a teenager asking her father if she can go out. 'Is… is Greg back yet?'

'Sure… I think he said something about wanting a shower; poor kid had to go through the garbage again.' He put down his magnifying glass. 'Is there anything I can help you with?'

'No, no,' she replied hastily, 'I just wanting to ask him something about our case.'

'The Marshall case? How's that coming along?'

'Not bad, not bad at all.'

'I heard from Greg that your little 'experiment' went according to plan.'

'Yeah… yeah, it was… interesting. And of course instructional. You er…' Sara narrowed her eyes a little before continuing, 'you did… know about it all in advance, didn't you?'

Grissom smiled. 'Greg said you'd ask me before the end of shift. And yes, yes I did. So you've no need to worry.' He flexed his fingers for a moment, then looked back at her. 'It was the most satisfying request I've authorized in quite some time.'

'Yeah, well, just so long as it _was _authorized. Anyway, I'd better leave you to it. Thanks Grissom.'

As she closed the door, Sara paused for a moment, her hand to the glass, but her supervisor didn't notice; his eyes were soon back on his work.

* * *

'So, tell me about yourself.'

Sara laughed. 'Excuse me?'

'Tell me about off-duty Sara. What do you do when you're not working, for fun?'

Sara looked across the table at Greg. His hair was still damp from his shower she saw as he lazily stirred the sugar into his coffee. He had such beautiful hands, she noticed, like a boy in a Botticelli painting.

The boy pulled a face and waved at her. 'Hey… you listening? I know this kind of thing is hard for you,' he joked.

'Alright, alright,' she replied, feigning annoyance. 'Well, I like to read…'

'What – the _JFS_? That doesn't count as leisure.'

'Not just work-related stuff, thank you. I read detective novels sometimes...'

'Huh,' he scoffed, 'That's still pretty much work-related. You ever read any Bret Easton Ellis?'

'What, _American Psycho _guy? No, thanks.'

'There's way more to him than that. I can lend you some, if you like.'

Sara cocked an eyebrow. 'Is this more of your dismembered-body-literature?'

'It's not all dismembered bodies, though I'll admit there are quite a few… anyway, what about TV? Do you ever watch TV? And I don't mean _Cold Case _and _Forensics Files_ on the Discovery Channel, either.'

She laughed, and looked down at the carrot cake on her plate, drawing patterns in the frosting with her fork. 'Well, I like to watch movies, actually, sometimes.'

Greg's eyes sparkled. 'Right – now we're onto something. What kind of movies?'

'All sorts – drama, comedies, the occasional sci-fi, even those shitty made-for-TV movies about a man who lives with his three kids in a car that say 'based on actual events' at the beginning.'

'Yeah, I like those,' Greg replied, nodding, 'and those Jackie Collins dramatizations with aging daytime soap actors…' He glanced back at Sara, who was eyeing him suspiciously. 'In a purely ironic sense, obviously.'

'Yeah, you tell yourself that, Greggo. Anyway, do I pass the test then, or what?'

'Well,' answered Greg, pressing the tips of his fingers together, 'the doctor's diagnosis is that you have a sense of fun lurking back there, but it's been so out of use that it's… well, atrophied, like a wrinkly old...'

'Hey!' interrupted Sara, flinging a crumb of cake at him from the end of her fork.

'Now that's more of the kind of behavior we need to be seeing round here,' cried Greg, brushing baked goods from his shirt.

'What, anti-social?'

'No, liberated.' He leaned forward, beckoning her closer. 'You're off the clock, Sara. We work long hours, and I think we both love our jobs, but that's not what life's about when it comes down to it.'

'So what is it about?'

'So many things.' He pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the booth table, and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. 'Here, I'll write you a prescription.' He began scribbling something on the paper tissue.

'Involving…?'

'Uh uh uh, wait a minute,' he interrupted, shaking his head. 'Now the student really does become the master.'

'Right,' Sara smiled, bemused. 'Greg…' She paused for a moment. 'Why are you doing all this, asking me all these questions?'

He stopped writing, and looked up at her. 'Because… do you want me to be honest?'

She nodded.

'Well, it's because sometimes, you seem so… sad, you know? Lonely maybe, I don't know. Stop me if you think I'm being out of line, which I'm pretty sure I am, but still…' He glanced back at Sara; she made no interruption. 'Sara, I really like you; you've been a good friend to me. And as clichéd as it sounds, I want for you to be happy… are you okay?'

Across the table, Sara's smile crumbled as she burst into tears, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

'Hey, hey, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…'Greg hopped up from his side of the booth, and scooted over to Sara's. Tentatively, he put his hands to the sides of her arms, only to have Sara fall sobbing into his own, clutching at his shirt as she cried into his shoulder. 'Sssh… sshh, Sara, what's the matter? Look, I'm really sorry…I didn't mean to…'

'No, it's not you,' she replied, blowing her nose into a napkin.

'Then what's the matter?'

'No one's ever said that to me before.'


	18. Girls & Boys

_**Author's Note:** yes, it's back! After a ridiculous hiatus, I offer you a ridiculously short chapter, but one that should hopefully spring forth a few more so that we can tie up this story once and for all, and let me get on with the far more silly and elaborate sequel I have lurking at the back of my brain. Thanks to all that took the time to make me feel better and reviewed last chapter; much of what I said was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but it never hurts either way. ;) Anyway – on with the show._

* * *

Shift was about to start again, and Greg wearily trudged his way toward the locker room. _Dude_, he thought. _You really messed up last night_. The whole object of the exercise was to cheer Sara up, and instead he had turned her into a sobbing heap of mush. It had been something of a shock. He'd seen her agitated before, angry even, but never this emotional; never to the point of actually crying. Sure, he'd tried to lighten the mood afterwards, and she'd said it was fine, but he was doubtful. Just when their friendship had seemed to be blossoming, he'd had to do something stupid like that and ruin it all.

_Shit_. As he set his foot across the threshold, there she was, and for all he'd dwelt on what happened, he couldn't think of anything to say. For one brief, ridiculous moment he had visions of those old Tom and Jerry cartoons in which the hapless cat had to tiptoe in front of a sleeping dog, but his train of thought was swept aside as he heard her call his name.

'Greg?'

He didn't look at her, just concentrated all his attention on stuffing his jacket into his locker. 'Er…hey.'

'Yeah…' Sara trailed off, feigning interest in a book she found resting on the metal shelf in front of her.

Greg sighed, and pushed the metal door to. 'Look,' he murmured, 'about what happened…'

'Yeah, thanks.'

'Huh?' He looked at her, uncomprehending. 'That's the voice of sarcasm, isn't it?'

'No… no, it's not.' Sara's voice lowered, before continuing, 'What you did, what you were trying to do… it's sweet. You're a good friend.'

'I try. Now I've just got to try to get those black smudges out of my shirt.'

That raised a laugh of sorts. 'Yeah… sorry about that.'

'You know I was kidding that time, right?' he added hastily.

Sara nodded, the smile back on her face.

'Thank God, because frankly, making you cry twice in twenty-four hours is really pushing it…' he checked himself. 'Sorry. I don't think I've really got the hang of this whole serious thing, and I know that it pisses you off...'

'No, no it doesn't,' she replied quickly. 'Okay, maybe sometimes, when you get really carried away and start… whatever. But it's a part of who you are, what makes you, you.' She pulled him into a hug, and pressed a swift kiss to his cheek. 'Never change that, Greggo; you're one of the good guys.'

And then she was gone, leaving Greg standing alone in the locker room, his pulse rising, his face beginning to flush and a boyish corner of his heart feeling the familiar stirrings of an old crush once again.


	19. The Tourist

_**Author's Note:** the season six finale seems to have sent the Greg/Sara fanfic community into something of a doldrums, so it seemed like high time to make an update. Damn it, I need to get this over with – the sequel is burning holes in my brain… it has a better plot, too. ;)_

* * *

After what had happened in the locker room, Greg had a little difficulty calming down and settling down to work. With hindsight, he pondered, perhaps those two coffees hadn't exactly helped things. Still, he'd finally managed to hunker himself down and was now sitting at the break room table, cookie in hand, poring over the Marshall file. That last interview with the victim's wife had thrown all his theories off course. Now they were chasing the dreaded mystery man, with nothing to go on other than the fact that he was probably fairly well-built. Great. Still, there were a couple of avenues they had yet to close; he'd sent swabs from a couple of mugs they'd found in the kitchen to DNA, and Hodges was onto any trace evidence they might find on the Marshalls' coffee grinder…

'Hey, Greg!'

He looked up. There was Sara, beckoning to him excitedly from the doorway.

'Where's the fire?'

'Down at PD. Brass called; said he's got someone you've been dying to meet.'

'Wow!' Greg pushed his files aside, a smile of curiosity beginning on his lips. 'Has Marilyn Manson been brought in on a breach of the peace charge or something? Or even better, Dita von…'

'Nope, not that good, I'm afraid,' Sara interrupted, 'but pretty good, I think you'll find. Stop drooling over the thought of Mrs Manson and be out front in five, okay?'

'Yes ma'am.'

* * *

'So what happened?'

'Serendipitous, you might say,' answered Brass as they hurried through the corridors of the police department.

'Oooh, long word,' Greg quipped.

'I'm more profound than you CSIs might like to think,' the detective shot back in reply.

'Yeah, I know; I was only kidding.'

'Me too. Anyway, the new manager at the Four Aces motel gives us a call reporting that the credit card company flagged the card one of their guests had used to pay their deposit. Just confirms what I was saying to the Sheriff only last week – we might as well hire a room in that damn place and set up 24-7 surveillance. Anyway, guess who our fraudster turns out to be?' Brass gestured through the glass door of the interview room. 'Sara, Greg, meet Mr Stuart Chapman, AKA the Mysterious Doritos Eating Dude.'

Greg looked through the doorway to see a disappointingly nondescript-looking young man sitting at the table, accompanied by a uniformed officer. He'd seen Chapman's face before, of course, in the mugshot that accompanied his rap sheet, but now he appeared a few years older, a good few pounds heavier, and sported a somewhat less luxuriant hairline.

The man spoke. 'Does someone feel like telling me what's going on here?'

'Okay, Stuart,' said Brass, seating himself opposite his quarry. 'Or is that Anthony? Because according to your credit card, you're a Mr A E Langham, which is odd, don't you think? Obviously you're slipping, since you're only… what, four weeks into your parole? And already we've caught you out.'

'This is ridiculous. Why are these people here?'

'These people? These people are Crime Scene Investigators, my man.'

'So?'

'So?' mimicked Brass. 'So it turns out your fingerprint was found at the scene of a homicide here in Vegas this week. Been getting around?'

'I want my lawyer.'

'That never sounds good, you know.'

'Mr Chapman, do you know a Mrs Sandra Marshall?' asked Sara.

'No; why, should I?'

'It's just that we found your print on some packaging in the Marshalls' trashcan on the day her husband was found dead. Can you explain that?'

Chapman was concentrating intently on a hangnail on his left thumb. 'I dunno. What kind of packaging?'

'An empty chip bag,' answered Greg.

Chapman snorted, and seemed visibly more comfortable. 'That's it? A lousy chip bag? You're giving me the third degree over an item of snack food? Man, I thought this was going to be serious.'

Brass glared at the suspect. 'Well, leaving aside the fact that we're going to be charging you with fraud, _again_, I'd say that first degree murder is pretty serious.'

'Excuse me?' Chapman raised an eyebrow witheringly. 'Look, your strong-arm tactics might work on the newbies, but as you've already stressed, I'm a veteran of this whole policing thing, and I know that one fingerprint is squat. And on a freaking chip packet? Come on.'

'Well, if you think that's the case, Mr Chapman,' Greg said calmly, 'then would you care to explain how it came to be inside the Marshalls' house?'

'How the hell should I know? Maybe I was walking past or something and dropped it.'

'Walking all the way from the Strip to Summerlin?' Brass tapped his fingers on the table. 'You've got to do better than that.'

'Look, where's my lawyer? I've got a right to see my lawyer.'

'That's true, Stuart, but first we've got a right to a sample of your DNA. That single fingerprint places you at the scene, and the judge thinks that's reasonable grounds for a warrant.'

* * *

'I think we've got ourselves a fruitcake,' muttered Brass as they stood behind the two-way mirror of the interview room.

'Maybe,' pondered Greg. 'Still, we've got some samples being run at the lab as we speak; hopefully they might shed some light on… well, something.'

'We're definitely looking at a guy for the body dump, if not for the murder,' explained Sara. 'We still haven't completely substantiated the wife's story yet, but as soon as we do, we'll let you know.'

'You do that,' replied Brass. 'I'm going to see what our chip man's been up to this past week, see how he fits into this whole mess… if at all.'

'Right,' said Sara as she and Greg made their way back to the police department parking lot. 'We've got a DNA sample that may be completely irrelevant… still, at least it's one more thing to run before we find ourselves completely up a blind alley.'

'I found a couple of coffee mugs on the kitchen counter at the scene; chances are it's just the wife and the husband again, but I was running the grinder for trace, so I thought it couldn't hurt to be thorough. We can always compare our man to those to keep us occupied.'

'Greg, we have paperwork to keep us occupied, though you might prefer Dita von Trees…'

'Teese,' he corrected.

'Whatever. So, she's, like, your dreamgirl of the moment, huh?'

'If she's good enough for Marilyn, she's good enough for me… hold on a second.' Greg's cell phone was buzzing. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. 'Yeah? Oh hi, Wendy. What? Really? Wow. That's… freaky, yeah. Give us twenty minutes, we'll be there. Bye.'

'What's going on?'

Greg snapped the phone shut excitedly. 'Oh my God. You'll never guess what.'

'What?'

'Guess.'


	20. Everything in its Right Place

'Oh my God.' Sara shook her head in disbelief. 'I can't believe we didn't see something like this coming.'

'That one came a little out of left field, eh?' said Greg, smiling.

They were both standing in front of Wendy's desk in the DNA lab, trying to take in their results.

Sara looked back at the technician. 'You're sure about this?'

'Uhuh. Ran it twice. Your salivary donors from the mugs in the Marshall kitchen have half the alleles in common.'

'Right. Sandra Marshall…'

'And her as-yet unidentified first degree relative.'

'Hmm.' Greg scrutinized the printout that Wendy had given him. 'Have you got results for amelogenin?'

'Yeah – XY.'

'Male. Right…' Greg twisted around, and produced a packaged swab from his bag. 'Wendy, can you run this for us ASAP?'

'Sure – I'll page you as soon as I get your results.'

'I love you,' he deadpanned.

For an awful moment Sara thought for that she was going to make a fool of herself and make a remark about his casual flirting that would betray her feelings. However, before she had the chance, Hodges came to her rescue by banging on the glass partition wall of the lab, beckoning for the pair to come over.

'It's not like you to get so excited, Hodges,' Greg joked as they swept into the trace lab.

'I'm not… especially,' the technician sneered back. 'Just thought I could save myself the trouble of trying to track you down later on.'

'Oh, thanks.'

'So then, Employee of the Month,' interjected Sara, arms folded, 'what have you got for us that that might get us excited?'

'Well, I don't know how easily you're pleased, Sara, but your results from the coffee grinder: positive for codeine.'

'In that case, I'm very easily pleased.'

'Even better, I noticed something young Sparky here seemed to have missed when he collected the evidence – a print, on the interior of the grinder lid, in codeine dust.'

'Come on, play fair,' protested Greg. 'I just…'

'Whatever,' interrupted Hodges. 'Anyway, I passed it on to ID; I think, once you get your results back from them, you might find that I, ahem, cracked the case.'

'Copy that,' answered Jacqui, popping her head around the door and waving a manila file. 'Dead bang for the wife.'

'Woohoo!' Greg was grinning from ear to ear. 'It all clicks into place, huh?'

'The print definitely ties the wife to the scene, the mode of ingestion… we got her,' said Sara, producing her cell phone. 'I'd better ring Brass.'

'Hold on a second,' butted in Greg.

'What for?'

'I just got a feeling… give Wendy time to do her magic, and I've got a feeling we can tie this whole thing up once and for all.'


End file.
